Sense
by onescape
Summary: T'Pol ponder various sensory, sensible and nonsensical information during her stay in sickbay after a mission gone awry. My first foray anywhere near Enterprise, so beware! Seriously, please be gentle.


Disclaimer: Um, yeah, Paramount owns. Which is just wrong, dammit! Ideas are not cattle. Let them run free!

You guessed, PG is for language.

If you're reading, please leave me a note. Thank you!

****

Sense

by onescape

Sound

Pounding of feet on the run. Heavy, tired feet, several pairs of them: Ensign Sato, Captain Archer, Commander Tucker. Faltering, skidding and regaining balance in a repeating pattern. The insistent creaking of gravel and small pebbles. Sand. The sound of drifting time in an hourglass. It must be difficult to run in the dunes.

It seems like a lifetime creeping by, although it must have been only a few minutes. The shuttlepod is not very far off. 

I can hear the steps decidedly closer than I am used to; I am being carried. It is Commander Tucker who is carrying me, but my senses tell me otherwise; in fact my senses are curiously silent. It unsettles me slightly. My center of balance is out of alignment and I have problems judging my position in relation to the ground. As I am thinking this I grow steadily more dizzy, what with the not-so-subtle juggling, and my breakfast – porridge – makes its way back into my throat. I _know_ that my fingers must be clutching the front of Commander Tucker's uniform, and I feel ashamed briefly, but the fact that I cannot feel the material between my fingertips takes priority. I try to will the tendons and muscles to move, but the response is weak, so weak. I must look pitiful. I sincerely hope Commander Tucker will not mention this when the first opportunity has arisen.

I wish to open my eyes, even as I muse that to leave oneself in the dark can keep the hopes much higher than knowledge of the undoubtedly worsening situation outside. Another fiasco. Why am I not surprised? I am distracting myself with these thoughts, while I struggle to clear away the peach-hued haze and shadows flickering over the field of my vision. My inner eyelid, I realize. It closed on reflex in the moment of impact of the blast, and has not opened since. The head wound must be much worse than I thought initially. I may have miscalculated the risks after all.

Shouting. The soft whirring of phase weapons being loaded, then the high-pitched keening of fire all around us, filling the air. I breathe in the tinge of discharged ozone. I expect any moment the body I am propped up against to jerk, and the long drop to the ground; I am readying myself silently for the inevitable pain. None of this happens. Yes, it seems that chance is working in our favor once again, and completely ignores the statistical distribution of the possibility _to not be hit_ in a crossfire.

Starfleet-issue boots ring out on a metal plated deck and bring an odd sensation of…calm. Now - one of them has just fallen out of sync and is struggling to keep up. His steps fade into the turmoil behind our backs. Of course he is slowing down; he has a superficial wound on his right thigh. Someone should go and help him; the odds to bring him back are still quite favorable…There. One, two, three pairs of feet again.

The deep rumble of the entry hatch finally echoes in my bones and the shuttlepod engines whine to life.

Smell

The acrid smell of disinfectant is overwhelming. I would recognize the Enterprise sickbay with closed eyes any day. Again, I am fighting down the remnants of what used to be my last meal, although I have already emptied my stomach once in the shuttlepod. I try not to dwell on that; the embarrassment is so great it is nearly painful for me to process the event, yet. The stench is awful. I will have to ask Doctor Phlox to do something about this.

I can also smell the faint whiff of musk in the air, and I know too well who is sitting by the bed.

"So you did it again," he states in the way of welcome.

"Captain," I reply as is expected. I force my still heavy eyelids open – the inner-eyelid reflex seems to have returned, thankfully – and resign myself to the long-anticipated discussion. If such combination is possible, he looks angry and relieved at the same time. His hair is mussed and the worry lines on his forehead deeper than usual, his eyes have lost sharpness to lack of sleep. My internal clock tells me about twenty hours have passed since our boarding the shuttle. I know with irrefutable certainty he spent the night here. "Have you had your leg treated?"

He looks down with a faint frown – thankfully, he has at least changed his clothes – then back to me. "My leg is just fine. How could you do that, T'Pol?" Oh. Cutting right to the chase, as the human idiom goes.

I blink. "Oh, no, you don't! You knew what you were doing when you moved into the line of that shot. You are much too careful and smart for something like that to happen by chance. You are _foolproof_, T'Pol. Now I want an explanation."

Jonathan Archer is exhausted; if I couldn't tell by his appearance, then his agitated rant proves that much. The irony of it – he is interrogating his seriously wounded second-in-command who has just regained consciousness, and apparently he feels the need to get defensive already.

Doctor Phlox arrives with his usual impeccable timing, which means that I am spared the consequences of answering truthfully for another few minutes. I suspect, although I have yet to prove this supposition, that he has in fact been observing us for some time from his office, and it is only now that he decided to interfere. In some ways, especially when it comes to Humans and their behavior, the Doctor is more of a researcher than I am.

"Ah, Sub-Commander! How nice of you to finally join the world of the living! I was getting worried. How do you feel?" He runs a scanner over me while I list the fierce headache, slight nausea and lingering numbness in my limbs.

Archer is standing by the bed, leaning his weight on his uninjured leg. I can tell he is worried, but impatient. He wants his answers.

"Some pains are still to be expected…that was a nasty hit you got behind your ear. You were lucky it was on stun. From what I gather, if it were not for that thick Vulcan skull of yours, you would be dead," the Doctor says, not once wavering from his exuberant tone, although still managing to tamp it down near the end and convey a fair amount of compassion.

"Doctor, I would like you to administer a dose of my nasal suppressant. I am finding it increasingly uncomfortable to breathe." My eyes wander to Archer again and – I blink a few times to make sure I am seeing right – a vague expression of hurt flits across his features. And to think I used to believe I was the one who was inconvenienced and slighted when it comes to smells around this place. 

He's asking Doctor Phlox when I will be able to return to duty. He doesn't want to rush it. Three days in sickbay for observation.

He waits until the Doctor has disappeared – went back to watching us, no doubt.

"Now, tell me, what was it about?"

"You were in the line of that shot, Captain."

"What?"

I cannot stop myself from releasing a sigh. "I said, you were in the- " He doesn't let me finish.

"Yeah, I heard that – are you seriously telling me you took that shot for me?!" Anger and total disbelief war on his face that has suddenly drained of color; not that there was much color to begin with. It is as if I am seeing him for the first time – which does not make sense, but I digress – he seems to have aged ten human years in that moment alone. Very well. Apparently I just turned all of his beliefs upside down.

I do not deem it necessary to provide an answer, as it is quite obvious. His eyes flash dangerously. Anger has just won.

"Are you insane! Where in hell do you get off doing something like that!?" If I hadn't tightened the grip on my own emotions, I would have winced at this outburst. As it is, I merely concentrate on diluting his attention.

"Captain, there is no need to be profane." It doesn't help matters at all. He turns his back on me as if he didn't want me to watch his loss of control, and punches the bulkhead beside the biobed with a resounding thud.

"Damn!" 

"Captain, I do not think this is the most appropriate time…" Doctor Phlox starts saying from the doorway of his office, but this time is silenced by a glare.

"We'll finish this shortly, Doctor," Archer bites off.

He turns back to me. He is seething. As usual when he is distraught he needs movement, but with the restricted space between the biobeds and his not yet completely healed leg, pacing is a very hard thing to do. After taking a few calming gulps of air, he reaches out and I know he wants to grab my shoulders and shake me; his favorite way of making me see the error of my ways. Soon enough he realizes it would only cause me pain, and instead settles for leaning on the edge of the bed, searching my eyes.

"Explain," he says in a measured voice.

I have to wonder if humans know our olfactory sense is twenty times better than theirs is. Do they know we can actually _smell_ the chemical changes in a body that are emotions? In this instant Archer's emotions, an odd mix of rage, confusion and fear is swamping me, and I have to concentrate to refrain from flinching. His mere presence, this knot of unbridled aggression, is threatening and he doesn't even know. If I were to give in to the momentary impulse, I would feel…fear. With the barbaric, blood-bathed past we had put behind us at an expense higher than humans could ever guess, Vulcans naturally shy away from all signs of budding violence.

"It was the logical course of action, Captain. If you had taken the hit in the position you were in, you would undoubtedly be dead, as Doctor Phlox has pointed out. Since your life and health is of utmost importance to this mission, and I was in no position to take out the shooter, I stepped into the line of fire," I recite calmly what has been playing over and over again in my mind since I woke up. Your life…utmost importance…I step into the line of fire. Yes.

He gives into the urge and grasps my shoulders, albeit carefully.

"Your logic is flawed, Sub-Commander."

"I do not believe it is, and you do not, either, Captain." I brave his piercing gaze with one of my own.

"How can you put my life over yours?" His voice is shaking with tension and very quiet, a sure sign matters are getting personal. "Do you Vulcans have no sense of self-preservation?"

"Just the opposite, Captain, our self-preservation instinct is very well developed. I did in no way plan on giving my life for you."

The eyes of Jonathan Archer are frantic. I fancy I have yet to see him so deranged. I do not wish to see the desperation written there, so I avert mine. 

"But you could have! You could have died, T'Pol! How do you think that would make me feel?"

How typical – he is being selfish, his argumentation irrational and emotionally charged, after he has run out of reasonable things to say. Hopefully, this conversation is drawing to a close.

"I did not, Captain. I am, albeit not perfectly yet, fine and alive, and so are you, " I conclude and I can hear the exhaustion marking my words myself. He's still frowning, he _wants_ to fight with me. Well, I do not. Not that I would ever fight with him in the sense of the word; I merely present my point.

"T'Pol…"

"Captain, I do not wish to continue this. I need to rest."

A miracle – his face softens immediately. The interrogator that blatantly ignored the ordination of his Chief Medical Officer is gone, and Jonathan Archer bows to the will of a weak female. He leaves without looking back. Minutes later the air in the room has been recycled and cleaned of the last traces of Jonathan Archer, and I breathe in deeply, feeling like myself again. Strangely, it is not as calming as I am used to.

Out of sight

Gray. I had always thought dim, soft colors soothing, but now I see that I was wrong. I have not had a chance to meditate yet, as sickbay is hardly a private place, especially under the scrutiny of Doctor Phlox. He confiscated all padds that might have appeared on the nightstand after Ensign Sato paid me a visit, and has been unceasingly questioning my motives for doing what I did. The next time we stop on an M-class planet, I'll make sure there are more than enough exobiological samples for the Doctor to study.

Lacking the opportunity to center myself and with much time to waste on my hands I am finding the ever-present metallic gray slightly irritating. My thoughts have been constantly straying towards inconsequent topics.

Commander Tucker 'dropped by' earlier today to 'see how our Geronimo was doin''. It is obvious he had talked to the Captain. He commented on the nice work Doctor Phlox did on the ear that had born the brunt of the blast and was pleased to be able to say it looked 'as good as new'. He seems to have a distinct affinity for my ears. There was the usual undercurrent in our conversation that I have long ago identified as sexual. Like every other time I was left being uncomfortable. I still have not come up with a reasonable course of action in such situations. I must admit I find myself less and less able to cope with humans' unbridled capacity and readiness for sexual encounters. As a female that, were she human, would be highly sexually desirable, I feel I am being pushed into a niche I do not care for.

Captain Archer did not come to see me today. It is only logical, as there are more important tasks for him to accomplish, but the fact that I am aware of this so keenly unsettles me to a great extent. This is how it came that when I heard his voice, I sat up more straightly and a minute later caught myself trying to catch a glimpse of him through the drawn curtain. As I realized this I corrected my stance instantly, and purposefully slouched back onto the pillow.

"You chewed her out for saving your sorry ass, Jon! You're nuts, didya know that?" An upset Commander Tucker. He has a peculiar way of talking to his superior.

"Trip, if she had died I don't know – ," Archer's voice broke in the middle of his statement. "I guess I just blew up…but I _did_ have a valid reason!" He sounds…distraught, afraid even.

Again with Vulcan superior senses: they probably assumed they were out of my hearing range. They never bothered to learn just _how_ good my hearing is, though. Such lax approach in humans then leads to unbearable lapses in courtesy on both sides – them sharing strictly private information with their coworker, and myself being forced to listen. I choose not to address this issue, because how much more embarrassing would it get, if I pointed it out?

"I _don't care_. Go to her and beg her forgiveness. You didn't see how she looked today! If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was disappointed to see _me_. "

Pardon me? 

What could he possibly have meant by that? It is an indisputable fact that I look the same every day, except maybe for the days when I am unconscious, but that would not be the case today. And the Commander has been known to overlook greater things than a lifted eyebrow or a gleam in the eye… It seems I have been becoming more careless of my facial expression during the last two years. Living among humans has certainly been eating away at my control.

I need a mirror. 

Touch

I awaken to a curious sensation, warmth. Meanwhile, I had already gotten used to the cold leaking everywhere on this ship, used to waking up with cold feet and stiffened limbs. Now I find I am not cold at all. A large hand is covering mine lying on the bedspread and the tantalizing heat is if flowing from every point where our skin is touching, into me. Which is, by the way, against one of the basic laws of thermodynamics, because human basal temperature is lower than Vulcan is. I am willing to let it slide for the moment.

Careful not to stir I examine the textures of the hand, all rough skin and crevices and creases. Not sophisticated or esthetical; not perfect, but so very human. Touching me. He must be feeling daring today, because he has never done this before. He was probably able to make up his mind about something, and the conclusion caused this. 

I feel his hand and the sea of tumultuous, unchecked emotions attached at the other end. Ah, angry still. But there is more, some bittersweet taste to it that I cannot identify. I remember I have always been wary of touching any of the crew, even by accident. I thought my inner balance could not bear physical contact with the humans that live and demonstrate their feelings in such a blatantly uncontrolled manner. But now, in this moment, I am the calm eye of his storm, and I am still myself. The undercurrent of tension is here as well, but seems less threatening, somehow.

I sense him easing up. He most probably doesn't know what is happening, only that my touch calms him.

According to my internal clock it is two hours before the alpha shift begins. 

Although I lie still, he knows I am awake – the monitors by my head have long ago shifted their steady sound indication. I keep my eyes closed, though, which I admit is not a much rationalized act, because if I opened them I would be forced to acknowledge the fact that my Captain has spent half of the night by my side again and is currently holding my hand. My mind steers clear of a closer inspection of the concept. I decide to keep with facts only.

After an indefinite amount of time he whispers fiercely, "T'Pol, promise me you'll never try such a stunt again," and his voice, although subdued, is harsh with emotion. This is his way of apology.

"I cannot promise you -," I want to say 'because I am your second-in-command, therefore it is part of my duty', but in the end I leave it hanging. Perhaps for a reason I have not yet deciphered. "I cannot promise you."

"T'Pol…" I silence him by moving my fingers briefly, lightly. A testing touch. He clenches my hand in his in response, so forcefully it almost hurts. And then the iron grip has loosened. I open my eyes and incline my head on the pillow to see his fingers slide between mine, so very, very slowly…he is giving me time to pull back. For some reason the sight mesmerizes me. I am conflicted trying to determine if this is a friend's touch. It certainly does not _feel_ like it, but that would be a subjective assessment on my part. 

If it is _not_ a friendly touch, what is it then? I choose not to follow this train of thought either.

Taste

I am very nearly asleep again, when he leaves for his shift. Before though, he grazes his lips against the corner of my mouth. A kiss. Definitely very daring today. The taste is something I am not accustomed to; not disgusting at all. Starkly foreign, but distantly familiar, like a long forgotten memory perhaps – like the first time I stood in San Francisco Bay looking out onto the ocean and took the first breath of salty air soaked with humidity. Fascinating.

I hope Doctor Phlox's insatiable curiosity has been tamed for now. I also hope he will _never_, under _any_ circumstance mention this to anyone, including myself. I shall have to find a way to reinforce this hope.

(Fin)


End file.
